


Misery Street

by lapoubella (orphan_account)



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Episode: s01e03 The Uniform, F/M, Fix-It, Mirror Universe, Multi, Past Drug Use, damn Jedediah you come with a lot of warning labels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-21 15:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6057040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lapoubella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Frank Stringfellow makes a mistake, and Dr. Hale is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shirking Responsibilities

**Author's Note:**

> When I first watched The Uniform, I confused Dr. Hale and the Colonel (who totally blind-sided me as a random, totally new side-character) and was convinced, until I saw The Belle Alliance, that Dr. Hale was dead. Disappointed at the potential plot-points missed in NOT killing him, I wrote my very first fanfic/drabble? All mistakes are mine, as this is completely un-beta-ed.

Captain Frank Stringfellow made a mistake. Dr. Hale was dead. 

To begin with, the two men looked infuriatingly similar; stout, heavily built, tanned, receding hairlines and facial hair to match made it so, at a glance, distinguishing the two from memory quickly became a jumble. Though, personality-wise, Dr. Hale and the Colonel differed greatly. Even the Union wouldn’t be stupid enough to allow a buffoon like Hale have any claim to Yankee intel. Of course, the dentist didn’t know any better. 

It surely didn’t help that the Colonel’s “dysentery” was, in fact, very real and not just a ploy to secure himself his own room. The Colonel was busy working it out in the washroom (read: suffering) while Hale stood idly outside the water closet, in the Colonel’s room, offering doctorly advice through the door and waiting on deck in case anything else was required of him. To his credit, the man let escape no grimaces or squeals of disgust - he was truly an army doctor. 

Dr. Hale stood in one corner of the room, partially obscured by a bookcase, partially blending into the backdrop, and entirely unobservant of one Billy Griffith - or Frank Stringfellow - slipping into the room. Dentist’s assistant by day, spy by night - keeping the personas separate became a fun game to him. Flashing his just-signed vouchers gave him a sense of sick pride. And, in this case, dangerous cockiness.

Frank recalled it in his mind - how he just strutted in, scanning the room, hearing groans from the corner, and making a beeline for the bureau. Even Hale, when he heard the sound of papers rustling and the voice of Frank’s appraisal of the map he held, knew a snoop when he saw one. 

Frank himself was only startled at Hale’s protest - “What do you think you’re doing in the Colonel’s suite?” And, given what the situation obviously looked like, Hale was quite well mannered about it all.

For his own part, Frank grasped at what little straws that were left and hastily dropped the half-folded map, instead grabbing for his kit. “I’m - the dentist, sir.”  
  
Hale had taken a step forward, in Frank’s direction, tilted his head, and raised his voice just enough to pour even more panic into Frank’s veins. “Why did the guards even let you in here!?”

At the time, images of being hanged, his body dragged through the streets (in front of Emma, oh please, not Emma), being spit on - the dirty Reb, they would say - and failing the Confederacy filled his mind so completely. In the midst of drowning in his fear, Frank did what he was taught to do. He lunged for the doctor, wrapping one hand about his mouth and nose and the other around his neck, and dragged the man toward the bed. Strangulation or asphyxiation would work, and maybe, maybe he could make it look like an... accident, natural causes. An inexplicable death, at the very least. Frank had ended up smothering the man, pushing him face first into the mattress until the life and struggle seeped out of him. Frank then promptly stripped off Hale’s jacket and shoes, tucked him under the duvet, and closed the man's empty eyes with an offensively graceful stroke of his hands. 

Now that it was all said and done, Frank breathed for a moment, processing and processing and raking his hands through his hair. Union Army Doctor shirks responsibilities and falls asleep on the job - not unheard of, Frank decided. It would have to do. 

And, quickly following, came brief shame; killing a Colonel was one thing - that was his mission, and the man would’ve deserved it - but a doctor... His death didn’t hold the same moral ambiguity, not even close. Hale had hands that saved lives; The green on his jacket’s insignia said that much. Ceasing their motion almost seemed akin to - to drowning a child, or shooting a woman. Doctors, even as horrible and unjust as Frank hoped this one was, had only innocence and good intent. In that way, comparing them to women and children fit too well, and it hurt.

Coming back to himself, Frank heard the Colonel’s moans of discomfort resume, completely unaware of the dead man now lying in his bed. Billy Griffith, now, took one last fortifying breath and gathered his things - map included - and left just as he came.

“Doctor that was with him - very adamant on no more visitors. The Colonel's having quite a time of it.” Tip of the hat, flash of a smile, “Have a good day now. Wish him well for me.”


	2. An Unhealthy Coping Mechanism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unhealthy coping mechanism that Anne Hastings can't bring herself to apologize for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little NSFW this time around? But not much, just, sort of half-mentioned in only two chapters. Also, unreliable narrator is a cynic and likes to simplify things. Again, not too much, but I wouldn't take everything they tell you 100% to heart.

He was 14 hours without the drug when Dr. Foster pulled on his newly issued uniform and saluted himself in the mirror the next day. The starts of sunlight pooled into the room, filling every corner with a pleasant, orange haze. Fastening the brass buttons along his front, which, too, glowed, he recalled Summers’ words - No more answering to Dr. Hale, now; Captain Jedediah Foster was a Union Army officer, everything he did, done in the name of preserving their country, advancing the field of medicine - and if no one else could appreciate that, so be it. (Perhaps some would, however. People do love a man in uniform, don’t they?) 

Mercifully, he managed to grab a few hours of sleep the night before, and he felt as prepared as he possibly could, given that, by his tallies, he hadn’t managed to go 22 hours clean for quite some time; incessant twitching cramps made an impossible job even harder, and so, he folded, succumbing so constantly he hardly bothered to fight it. (Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he increased his dose? Would it be nice? How much more would he need, to be free of it? Would it be nice?)

Now, things were different. He schooled his features back into hard resolve, and tried to coerce his thoughts of his agreement with Nurse Mary into submission, lest they dredge up any other horrible snippets he could recalled from his doped up encounter with her. Admitting defeat was hard enough, but losing all of his dignity to - 

Shame and anger warred, as they often would, and knowing how Mary would dismiss those emotions so graciously caused him to grit his teeth. Surely it couldn’t have been anyone else, to find him floating in a pool of morphine and rejection? The duchess, of all people? She was haughty, in control, which commanded his respect as much as his resentment. And to know that now, now they’d never be colleagues again. Now, she’d forever see him as a liability, a child to look after, the pitiful man he was. He wanted to hate her for it, but shouts from the corridor drew his focus elsewhere.

\----

“How - how could you have just let this - this -” Anne Hastings wasn’t one for being flustered, much less st-stammering her words like so, but her sudden and intense ire (focused at the pair of guards stationed outside of Mansion House’s main suite) was far preferable to the alternative. Her hands, white-knuckled in their grip of her skirts, would not stop shaking, but at least her voice held true, shrill yet steady. Both the matron and Summers found themselves too terrified to try and calm her, which she considered a blessing in that moment, because if they had, she would’ve surely broke down in tears.

Thankfully, she hadn’t any need to finish her sentence. “Now - m’am. We don’t know what happened just yet. Until we do, the Colonel has put us all under orders not to speak of it. Mr. Summers is in total agreement with that, isn’t that right, sir?”

Put on the spot, all Summers could do was offer a reluctant expression and a short nod. The body of Dr. Hale was discovered last evening by the Colonel, and since then, Summers and the matron forfeited sleep in favor of keeping the situation under wraps. (Samuel Diggs hadn’t achieved more than an hours’ sleep as well, but this sacrifice was expected of him.) The body had been carried down to a corner of the dead room, inspected, and prayed over. A midnight meeting held with the Colonel over his suspicions of foul play. And the guards, well, the guards were being reprimanded right now.

“You utterly useless -” Anne spat out, before cutting herself off. She sharply turned on Summers, putting him in last position he wanted to be in this early in the morning, the exact one he feared. “Why wasn’t I told?” Even through all this, Anne hated not knowing, not being told, as much as she ever did.

Summers’ voice dropped in volume, “We haven’t told anyone. Miss Hastings.” He sputtered for words, before continuing, “If the Colonel is right, well, whoever it was could still be here, right under our noses. We can’t let the soldiers or the staff panic. And, most of all, we can’t let them get cold feet and run off.” He took a deep breath, and added in a harsh, rushed whisper, “So, for godssakes, pull yourself together! Do not speak of it!”

Hastings pulled her chin up in a sneer, but otherwise did not reply. The lull in commotion allowed the matron to notice that one Dr. Foster had been standing not 10 feet away, stuck still in his door frame, and her quick glance brought down a cascade of others.

“Oh, come now! Don’t just stand there, boy.” The matron barked at him.

Foster obediently strode over, bowing slightly to the group. “Matron. Summers. Miss Hastings.”

Not one for niceties, especially not now, Summers only nodded brusquely. “Foster, the same goes for you. Do not speak of anything you’ve just heard. Dr. Hale has the smallpox and we are understaffed currently - that is all you need to know.” Focusing his gaze now on the guard that had done most of the talking (a lanky man who’s uniform hung loose around his waist), he added, “You, please, do your job this time around.” Weariness overcame Summers for but a moment, until he nodded his head once more in dismissal and hurried off to his office. The guard, too, stepped back to resume his work.

The matron turned her head to Hastings, her voice sympathetic, “Dear, I’m -” but Hasting’s sudden clearing of her throat, and resolute refusal of eye contact indicated that any apologies were unnecessary. The matron, miffed, looked from Foster back at Hastings. In the end, she decided on a slight inclination of her head, “Good morning, Dr. Foster,” and left. And so went Anne Hasting’s most needed distractions, except for - 

“Ah, Dr. Foster, you’re wearing your uniform. I trust the tailor made a good job of fitting it?” She didn’t even bother to pretend the comment was anything other than blatant flirting, and the smile that accompanied it only furthered that. 

Perhaps turning her sights on Dr. Foster so soon after Dr. Hale’s death, was, well... no. To reword, more aptly and frankly: perhaps hypersexuality in response to grief and panic at the unknown was diagnosable as some modern malady - it is - but, to Miss Hastings, it presents itself the lesser of the hundreds of evils out there. She could justify it to herself in dozens of ways, and doing that proved itself as an easy task since, after the Crimea, imagining God looking down upon it, upon her, a god, even - it all seemed so laughable. What shame should she have when she’s merely an unmarried woman, serving to save lives God clearly gives no care to? In that, the positives outweighed the negatives by leaps and bounds, and besides, doctors needed distractions as well, and Dr. Foster, well, he would make just a fine distraction.  
At this thought, another secretive, suggestive smirk lit up her face. Realizing Dr. Foster hadn’t made a move to reply, and simply appraised her with now slightly widened eyes, she added, “Come with me to the supply room. We need to make preparations for the day.” People of the house were just beginning to stir and rouse themselves, but she didn’t concern herself with worrying about that.

\----

It was unfair to say Anne simply threw herself at him. She did not. She allowed them to hold an extremely mundane and, honestly, unarousing conversation regarding how much suture was likely to be needed for one patient, Walter Pearson, whose stitches had reopened during the night (the answer to which she knew, of course, and answered exactly perfect. Miss Hastings wasn’t the queen of bandaging because she married into it.)

It wouldn’t be unfair to recount how, instead of her verbal ministrations, which were getting her nowhere, she opted instead to crowd his space. One could ignore the misplaced innuendo here or there, but a lovely woman, within an arm’s reach? You’d have to do an awful lot of maneuvering around her. 

Dr. Foster would like to blame his craving for the drug on how, when Anne slyly positioned herself between him and the cupboard he had been reaching for, he was all too willing to pull her into a filthy, just filthy kiss. His conscious had no excuse for allowing him this amount of self-deception, aside from the hopes that it may preserve his rickety mental state. 

Things progressed, as things are to do, especially if Anne Hastings has a say in the matter. Over the course of a few minutes, Foster came and went like a green boy in his early teens, leaving an immensely pleased Miss Hastings to go about her day while Foster excused himself back to his quarters to clean up. 

He only had about three hours (if his memory hadn’t entirely failed) before it was likely he’d be unable to hold a scalpel straight, or go a handful of minutes without the need to pull out his handkerchief yet again, and he intended to make the most of it. No more dwelling on Hastings or Phinney - or Hale. They would find another surgeon, somewhere, out of the deep recesses of hell if they had to. He would not mourn that - that idiot of a colleague. Not today, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always felt like Phoster, though I love them, is a bit too easy at this point and deserves more angst! It is called Misery Street for a reason, after all, and not because I'm bad at coming up with names! (Though... that too.) I've also decided that, chapter by chapter, I'll work on re-writing the storylines I've (very happily) derailed. A small issue being that there are many, and I'm bad at choosing. So, who do you want to see next?


	3. Made Off with Part of Your Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The week between The Uniform and The Belle Alliance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of an info dump/transitional chapter. Sorry, but with all of the storylines, I needed somewhere to tape down all of the threads. Some of them might seem dropped, but I promise they will pick up and be weaved back in later on.

Samuel, after having been met with Aurelia's obstinate self-reliance and resilience time and time again, tried to reconcile their so starkly disparate backgrounds. Some would have them think, as he once thought, that they belonged in the same boat. Negroe - less than - wanting more - deserving more - forever resilient. Contraband or freeman, no matter. But his resilience, no, it wasn’t like hers; If she was iron, he would be tin. 

But still, he wanted, as was characteristic to his people, Negroe or human alike - he wanted to match her somehow, to understand.

Philosophy had come to him. The biggest part of their conflict resided in differing philosophy, did it not? That was what your background, your raising, brought to you, wasn’t it? A life philosophy, the knowledge you forever carried with you. And though he, too, was in a way a slave - son of one - he had never been treated quite entirely so. Mr. Bullen was an entirely new beast to him, and yet, his Aurelia did not bat an eye - she dealt with such creatures all her life. Would she ever not resent him for it? How can you reconcile that?

Samuel considered freedom. Doing so usually offered nothing but frustration, generally proving musings on freedom - much less any sort of philosophical musing - utterly useless, but at the moment, he had time to spare (mindlessly carting coffins to and fro), and it came with a purpose. How it would help him understand Aurelia better was yet to be seen, but still, he hoped something would come of the mental exercise.

Samuel considered the transition from object to human to be marked when said object began to reject to the way it was being used. When one took the reigns of their own future, exhibited free will, that was human. Freedom, in essence, was humanity. 

And he considered... himself, Aurelia, the Green’s cook, Miles (who had run off) - free, or not? Did they exhibit their own free will? Miles did. The cook, he wasn’t sure. Aurelia - if she ever didn’t, he couldn’t for the life of him imagine; even in shackles, he imagined her tiny acts of rebellion. And himself? And himself.

After apprenticing, taking a job here, looking for field work... was it all just a pipe dream, to hope? Out of all of them, Samuel felt the least human. Left putting dead boys in coffins, carrying live ones inside, doing housework - unsealing windows of all things (they were in Virginia. Locals only ever closed their windows when proper January weather decided to make an appearance) - in Mansion House, and what, in the dark of night, only rarely, he fulfills his potential? And he hadn’t complained. Only now did the full thought, the full reality, strike him. Which left the question - what kind of man pays no mind to his livelihood until he forces himself to?

He paused a moment in the Mansion House’s courtyard, admired the sound, the bustle of work; recalled standing in the exact spot, hoisting Dr. Hale’s freshly minted casket by one end, a (surprisingly healthy and fully intact) soldier holding the other. The place was dead silent then, only pinpricks of white serving as an audience, God’s only other witnesses, what, only 12 hours ago? 

His indulgence in his exhaustion was short-lived, however, as a low, urgent voice interrupted him soon enough, his instinctual response being an apology.

“No time for apologies, Samuel, we need you in the surgical room.” The voice was steely, precise, but cushioned somehow. Nurse Mary swung into view. Shouldn’t have been surprised, and yet -

“Me? But - it can’t be past 2 o’clock. The Mansion House isn’t gonna empty out -”

“I know, Samuel. Summers is - he is a Union man, and he concedes it. Not an abolitionist as I am, but he concedes it. We are in dire straits currently. And Mr. Squivers, though lacking in practical expertise and a stomach for such things - he will talk you through it. I will aide. Now - come.”

\----

At nine, Mary had dismissed him as being ‘unfit’ - cramps be damned. Now, he suffered Sister Isabelle trying desperately to ply him with food or, at least, “at the very least, have water!” He took the tin mug she held harsher than he intended and chugged the thing to make her agree to leave. And, in exchange for three full mouthfuls of toast (“yes, Dr. Foster, you must chew and swallow. No, I don’t care if you’ve not the stomach for it, or if you’ve not been peckish since breakfast”), she supplied him with the latest gossip around Mansion House. Since he’d taken to bedrest, at least, much had happened. And Sister Isabelle, unassuming in her habits, so relished in telling him.

He was relieved to hear that Dr. Hale’s (and, now his own) diagnosis of smallpox went unquestioned; Isabelle wholly considered Dr. Hale to be lying in bed, fighting off the urge to peel off his face, quite possibly at death’s door (“but it doesn’t take them all, and by God’s grace, there’s still a chance he’ll make it through”). He heard Hastings had been so severe to a volunteer nurse that the poor girl broke down crying, and that Hastings, hearing of his sickness, stepped forward to nurse him herself. (He would never, never allow this; There had to be one person in the building who still viewed him as a whole man. Thank God that smallpox’s extremely dismal prognosis didn’t spur her into further insistence. Instead, the contagious nature kept her away.) And, lastly, he was positively having ulcers, on top of all his other maladies, at the thought of Samuel performing the amputation of David Faulkner’s left hand. Even more so - Cadet Squivers being present.

But, as the forecast appeared for the rest of the week, perhaps longer, the only thing apt to change was the amount he was monitored. As it looked, he was only likely to get worse and worse. How so, he could only vaguely recollect from previous instances. It would be light to say he dreaded it.

\----

Anne, understandably, had a difficult time acclimating to the sudden change in Mansion House. She felt herself a bit of a canary, sensing a change in the air before the masses did. She refused to be so fragile as to simply drop dead, however.

The only ripple of change was Anne’s demotion to any amount of odd jobs on the first floor, to the surprise of the other nurses’ she usually snubbed. With both their doctors gone, and Phinney’s appearance, the pedestal she had built underneath herself was pulled away and used as a dying soldier’s nightstand. No longer in the detachment of the second floor, working in tandem with Hale in the surgery suites, Anne stood stranded in a sea of bustling skirts, bloody rags, obscure stenches, and slowly expiring boys without so much as a raft to keep her afloat. Anne tried to regain some part of herself with the knowledge that the tasks would blend, consume her, ease the sharpness of her mind; whiskey was much more effective in this endeavor. In her defense, she wasn’t quite as bad as Summers, as she limited herself to only raiding the medical cabinets at night. Even Dr. Foster wouldn’t offer her refuge from working the floor - apparently he had smallpox, and opted to self-treat rather than spread it to the entirety of the hospital; a perfectly logical decision that she couldn’t argue with.

But she also couldn’t help but feel that it was just God’s way of toying with her; lying about Hale’s malady brought the real thing; becoming amorous so soon after Byron’s death surely spelled out punishment. Her slapdash plan of denoting Foster as her new beau, and therefore a tether to some sort of security, were clearly vetoed by the fates that be. She hadn’t the faintest of what would become of her hospital.

The senseless drivel she heard from her nurses didn’t offer her any hope. 

 

“Oh, infections’ set in. We need to prevent it from spreading to the rest of the leg - or the other patients.” Stating the obvious, as if miasma wasn’t already contaminating the air. Excusable - but then the woman had to add “Bring him upstairs. Dr. Squivers will see to him.”

Anne paused in reapplying a union boy’s bandages; how he’d managed to so badly burn his feet she may never know, he slept most days. How he even joined the army, too, was a question - he shouldn’t have been older than 15. He shouldn't have been younger than 18.

“Doctor?” Came her sharp reply, when her voice returned. Soon after her body started obeying, and she stood to face the stout woman who spoke. “Surely Cadet Squivers isn’t here in Mansion House, operating on soldiers?”

“Uh, yes m’am. He is. Upstairs, with Nurse Phinney.” The woman faltered, voice choppy and reluctant in the knowledge that Miss Hastings would kill the messenger without remorse.

“Any fool knows that one must disinfect the wound before infection can set in. That man will _die_ because of your carelessness.” Miss Hastings would finish off messenger with absolute joy, but she had more important matters to call to. “Miss Nightingale would be abhorred with you.” For now, the offending nurse survived with a scornful look as Hastings strode off, patient forgotten, skirts in hand.

Percival sat facing away from the operating table, shoulders drawn up as far as they would go, turning himself into an almost endearing rendition of an unshelled, lanky turtle. One hand steadied a medical textbook open on his lap, the other clamped around his nose to minimize the thick copper in the air. 

“Gently loosen the tourniquet and return any tissue over the stump.” Though one may imagine a nasal voice reading this passage aloud as comical, both Diggs and Phinney were primed to tear the book out of his hands, had they not been so focused on their task. The resounding schlucks he heard as moist flesh was tampered with made him, if possible, draw his shoulders ever closer to his ears. 

“Good job, Samuel... Now, for the stitches ... Catgut suture, please.” A steadying voice spoke, “I can finish here. Go fetch us some water and carbolic acid, please.”  
Squivers could only imagine the colored man nodding, wiping what little blood he could off on the apron tied at his waist, before he heard the door open to signal his departure. 

“You will require about 16 inches of suture.” Percival estimated, almost proud that all of his years apprenticing didn’t go to waste.

“Thank you, Squ-” The door swung open, a lighter step entered, a more laborious gait.

 

“Miss Phinney.” An angry Nurse Hastings - he opted for staying faced away from the brewing conflict. 

“Miss Hastings.” Surprise, maybe annoyance, but no fear? Percival marvelled at Nurse Mary’s bravery, perhaps for the tenth time that day. “Would you mind closing the door?”

A deep breath, a measured step - the door shut. He imagined a sour expression on Miss Hastings’ face, but that didn’t match up with the venom and exhaustion he heard. “Miss Phinney,” She repeated, low and calculated, “I don’t pretend to know your motivations. Our top surgeons are out of commission, so I suppose I shouldn’t have to. But... If there’s one thing these wars have taught me, it’s that either one is against or for, and failure for the latter defaults you onto the former. A makeshift kitchen is one thing. But the fact that you’d sooner recruit a cadet and a colored man before consulting me... Is entirely another.” A sharp breath - he couldn’t discern who it belonged to - “Your statements of camaraderie, Miss Phinney, as well as your word, are completely and utterly void of meaning to me.” Two steps to cross the room, and the door, again, open and closed.

\----

“Oh, Miss Phinney. If only you could hear how he talks about you when you're away.” Sister Isabelle remarked vaguely, coy to the bone. To Miss Phinney, she had the look of a smug child - ‘I know something you don't’ - and was sorely reminded of her younger sister when they were but tiny things.

And, Isabelle was, as Mary reminded herself, a child. And, normally Phinney would ignore such lazy goading, but of it pertained to a patient, more importantly Dr. Foster, she had to jump at it. “Oh?” Ever the image of control and grace, she laid her book down and turned to the young woman.

The matron and staff alike, having quickly gotten sick of tripping over one Mary Phinney, who had been known to be entirely dead to the world for an upwards of 12 hours after her more taxing days (emphasis on the plural), sent out a demand that any female tenants currently occupying a room were to offer Mary lodging. Emphasis on any - and female. 

Mary found the fact that Isabelle wore a simple longsleeved nightgown to bed strange, but otherwise had nothing of note to say of her occupying one corner of Isabelle’s cramped quarters. Mary simply came in to sleep, only changed when Isabelle was out of the room, and her items didn’t comprise of anything more than a handful of dresses, aprons, and her handy bag/pillow. Isabelle explained the nightgown, anyways, which was summed up succinctly in her vow of chastity and poverty; therefore, only cheap and modest sleepwear, petticoats, and toilets for her. Just as well, too - anything too fancy was bound to be ruined, and anything too revealing... the loads of raving men downstairs were bound to catcall or engage in far worse acts. Mary didn’t particularly enjoy the thought of young Isabelle enduring the latter.

Isabelle only continued to smile that mischievous smile. The girl’s tendency towards gossip seemed unchristian, especially for a nun, but Mary couldn’t fault someone else’s single source of refuge, not in a place like this, not to someone like Isabelle.

“Oh, now, Sister Isabelle. I didn’t pause my reading about ligatures for you to withhold information regarding my patient.”

“Well, when he isn’t heckling you, he’s... oddly thoughtful.” There was a laugh in Isabelle’s voice, and she was so obviously teasing.

Regardless, it was far more contagious that Dr. Foster’s fake case of the speckled monster, and Mary let herself smile. “He continually asks me why I bother with the common man. If I’ll speak German with him. _Those_ , Sister Isabelle, are heckles.”

“If only because he thinks you above it all! He thinks you, the _Duchess_ , bilingual.”

“Baroness,” Mary corrected automatically.

“Exactly! Isn’t Duchess a step up from Baroness?” Isabelle continued on, “And he wonders how you managed to keep your hair so - structured, and your dresses clean. Although,” Isabelle paused, taking on a thoughtful face. “Arguably, he wonders it of all the nurses... I heard poor Emma positively emptied herself after your second - excursion with Mr. Squivers and Diggs.” She grimaced sympathetically, before picking up her thread of the conversation again and returning to her thoughtful phase, ”He thinks long hair is too frivolous for an army hospital, too.” And now, her excited expression returned, her voice ramped back up to an almost-squeal to interject, “But! Still!” and calmed down just ever so slightly, in barely contained joy. She seemed worryingly close to slipping off where she was perched on her mattress. “He thinks of you.”  
Phinney would be damned if she paid any mind to her sudden tenderness. Instead, she perked an eyebrow, “I trust you haven’t been telling everyone about Samuel’s honorary position.” In hindsight, perhaps Mary would fare better sleeping on the first floor, and getting someone else to help her tend to Dr. Foster.

Isabelle shook her head eagerly, dark curls that fell from her temples, normally concealed under her veil, bounced along. “Nome, even I have more self-restraint than that.” Her solemn frown cleared to make way for a conspiratorial smile, “Miss Hastings is far more interesting, anyways.”

“Mmhmm.” Miss Phinney would also be damned if she let herself openly agree with that. “But perhaps it is wrong to speak of both Miss Hastings and Dr. Foster in such a way.”

And Isabelle’s face fell. “I - no m’am. Of course it’s not.” Solemn again - how was this girl so expressive? So light and kinetic? Mary simultaneously marvelled at it and felt guilt for bringing the girl down from her giddiness. 

“Nome. It’s not excusable. I do apologize.” She agreed again. A breath, “It’s simply that... I worry for them, Miss Phinney. The way Miss Hastings acts, so mercurial. One worries if the devil hasn’t consumed part of her soul or made off with it. She’s a kind, selfless woman; she doesn’t deserve such torment.” Isabelle bowed her head lower, hands clasped in her lap, 

“Dr. Foster too. He... speaks of such things. I take pity on him, he’s such a wretched man, at least at the moment. Living is pure torment for him. I must help him in the washroom, he rejects all I feed him. He finds it so terribly embarrassing. He despises having you see him in such a state, having anyone do so. He can’t see why he’d ever be worth the trouble.” The fluttering of her eyelashes were caught in the glint of the candlelight, and she sniffed. “He imagines the grieving families, cursing him. Men he might have saved. How he wishes relationships were mended: him and Dr. Hale, his wife, his - his mother.” A touch of steeliness came over her, but no anger. “I wonder too, if his mother hadn’t had the devil partake in her soul. The nerve of that woman. I... I wish to help him, but the word of God, Bible verses, hymns, they do not grant him the solace he needs.” She looked up again, the eye contact she made between her and Mary delicate, “Even his anger, his bawdiness, his odd remarks on colleagues, I rejoice in it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sister Isabelle is mentioned a grand total of three times! Basically, all we know from her interactions with the matron is that she's a young, gossipy nun. Mary briefly mentions her in the beginning of The Belle Alliance, as well, so we know she also looked after Jed during his remission. I basically headcanon her as a darling Dolly-do-gooder munchkin who needs a wee bit of guidance in these hard times. Cue mentor Mary.
> 
> (And yes, I'm a horrible Hastings sympathizer. Hopefully the (totally unlikely, probably a bad idea?) dream team makes up for it? I do have a soft spot for a motley group of misfits pulling together to, well, amputate legs together, after all.)
> 
> *EDIT: looking back, I was really proud of this chapter in particular, though I won't be continuing with it.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be adding a follow up chapter in a few days time to show how this little event impacts our beloved Anne Hastings and Doctor Foster. Compliments and constructive criticism are very welcome! (I'm sure my tenses are quite shaky in this, so feel free to help me out with that.) Please tell me what you think!


End file.
